Page 39 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Everything was as it should be. The same as the day before and the day before that.

Perhaps a maid had brought in water as usual but otherwise it had all been a dream.

He was really quite sure of it now. What a relief.

No apologies to make. No woman in his bed.

No ghostly Miss Macy with ethereal blond hair whispering to him in the night that he was safe.

That she was safe. Perhaps it was a sign.

God was telling him he was finally past it.

His heart was safe—Miss Macy fared well wherever she’d gone, and was none of his concern.

Everything was fine. It was time for Nathaniel to get on with life in the here and now.

Invigorated at the thought, Nathaniel threw back the bedclothes.

He swung his legs over and for a moment sat on the edge of his bed, bowing his head in thanksgiving for a new day.

The sunlight splayed over his nightshirt-clad knees.

Something shone on the plain white fabric like a thread of a brighter hue.

He pinched the errant thread between thumb and forefinger, preparing to toss it in the rubbish basket, but stopped.

Instead, he lifted the thread before him and in the shaft of sunlight saw it was not a thread but rather a long hair. A long blond hair.

He frowned. Who among his staff had such hair?

None that he could think of, though he made a practice of not looking often nor directly at the young women in his employ.

He supposed it might have come in by way of the laundry.

He would not recognize the laundry maids if he passed them in the street.

Or perhaps Lewis brought home some lady’s hair upon his person and it had transferred to Nathaniel via the laundry.

Lewis, he knew, had no lack of female admirers of every description.

But even as his logical mind tried to reason away the blond remnant, to avoid linking last night’s dream with its subject, he could not succeed for long.

He had dreamed of blond Margaret Macy, only to awaken with a long blond hair in his bed?

Dear God, have pity on a poor sot. What sort of sign was that?

Margaret pressed two fingers to her lips, still tender from Nathaniel’s kiss.

A pair of fingers was not so much different than a pair of lips, she reasoned, but somehow the pressure of her fingers, once soft, now already beginning to roughen, felt nothing like his lips had—firm, smooth, yet punctuated with scratchy whiskers on chin and cheek.

Just thinking of it caused her to experience anew the sweet heady tension, the hammering heart rate, the delirium of thought and emotion.

She had never felt that way in her life and wondered why.

Margaret had been kissed before. She thought back to Marcus Benton’s forced kiss not so long ago, his fingers biting into the tender skin of her upper arms. But that act had evoked revulsion, anger, fear.

.. not the dreamy longing that lingered over her now, that languor of limb and mind.

Marcus’s had been an act one wished to forget.

Nathaniel’s a moment to savor and relive.

She told herself she was being foolish. For he had not known what he was doing.

If he had known it was her, really her, he would never have kissed her, held her with such urgency.

But he had been dreaming of kissing her, so did that not mean something.

.. something wonderful? She thought she had killed any feelings he’d had for her. But perhaps she had been mistaken.

How different she would feel if she believed Nathaniel Upchurch had tried to kiss Nora, a defenseless housemaid.

She thought of Lewis’s flirtatious past and Marcus’s outright seduction of girls who felt they had little choice.

Margaret thought she understood for the first time why Nathaniel Upchurch never really looked at, and certainly never ogled, his servants.

It was to her advantage, for he had not looked at her directly enough to recognize her.

She wondered what it would be like to kiss Nathaniel when he was fully awake.

She doubted she would ever know. For awake and in his right mind, a gentleman like Nathaniel Upchurch would only kiss his wife with that measure of unguarded passion.

She’d had her chance to be his wife and had spurned it, spurned him.

A choice she was beginning to truly regret.

Nathaniel asked Hudson to ride with him that morning, and the steward happily obliged.

They rode away from the estate and cantered along a country lane, scaring up grouse and pheasant.

Then they slowed their mounts to a leisurely walk, enjoying the swish of horsetails against dragonflies, a gentle September breeze, and companionable silence.

Finally, Nathaniel began, “What do you suppose it means, Hudson, when I dream of a beautiful blond lady and awaken to find a long blond hair in my bed?”

Hudson chuckled. “My goodness, sir. What vivid dreams you must have!”

“You have no idea.”

Nathaniel was confident Hudson knew he was not suggesting he had actually had a woman in his bed. Since his change of heart on Barbados, he had made every effort to keep his ways pure. He asked, “Have we some blond housemaid I am unaware of?”

“You seem unaware of all the maids, sir, if I may say.” Hudson paused to consider, staring up at the blue sky as though a staff roster were written there.

“There is a scullery maid with fair hair, but hers is a rather short mop of curls. The laundry maid’s hair might once have been considered blond, but it’s all but grey now.

And your sister’s hair is a rich coffee brown. ”

Nathaniel gave his steward a sharp look, and Hudson turned away, face reddening.

“Not that I have cause to notice.” He cleared his throat.

“I can think of any manner of ways a stray hair might have ended in your bedclothes. I will ask Mrs. Budgeon to speak to the laundry maid straightaway, and see that she takes more care in future.”

Nathaniel waved the notion away. “Never mind, Hudson. I was only curious.”

“Very well, sir.” Hudson coughed. “But do let me know if you find any more... em... souvenirs.”

Nathaniel nodded. He realized he was lost in thought when he looked over to find Hudson studying him with wry amusement.

“Must have been some dream, sir. Did you eat something unusual last night, I wonder?”

“Come to think of it, Monsieur Fournier served herrings in some new garlic sauce, and I ate too many of them.”

Hudson’s eyes glinted. “Herrings, you say? I shall have to remember that.” He sighed. “What a man wouldn’t do to have such dreams.”

For the first time since his return, Nathaniel found his eyes traveling to the female servants he had consciously avoided before, both for their ease of mind and his privacy.

He did not stare, only glanced quickly to gain a general impression of hair and stature.

Had one of them been in his bedchamber early that morning? Was it her? Or her?

Stop it . None of the women, young or old, seemed unusually uncomfortable in his presence.

All turned their backs or heads, feigning invisibility when he neared and then quietly resuming their work once he’d passed.

He had not ordained the cold, impersonal system, but it had reigned at Fairbourne Hall since his grandmother’s day, and he had given it little thought before now.

He trotted upstairs, deciding to return to the scene of the morning’s strange dream.

A middle-aged housemaid with auburn hair passed him in the corridor, eyebrows high, perhaps surprised to see him returning to his bedchamber at such an early hour, but she made no comment.

He opened his bedchamber door and saw the rising billow of bedclothes being lofted over the bed, and the apron of the invisible housemaid beyond.

When the bedclothes lowered and settled, the maid glanced up and gave a little gasp. Unless he was imagining it, her face blanched, then mottled red.

Here then was a housemaid who did seem alarmed by his presence.

Or was she merely startled, unaccustomed to being disturbed at this time of day?

He looked at her more closely, but the young woman ducked her head, clearly uncomfortable.

He recognized her as the new maid Hudson hired, the one who wore spectacles and had broken his model ship.

He blinked, trying to recall his dawn awakening.

Had the face above him—whether in dream or reality—worn spectacles?

Perhaps... He couldn’t quite recall. She had turned and fled so quickly.

A fringe of dark hair covered much of the new maid’s brow, the rest of her hair hidden beneath a floppy mobcap. Her eyebrows were dark as well. A pretty girl to be sure, but not the woman who’d left behind a loose blond lock.

“Sorry to startle you. Go about your work. I shall be out of your hair in a moment.” Why was he chatting away with a housemaid who clearly wanted him gone? Out of your hair? He had never uttered such an inane phrase in his life. He had hair on the brain.

Imbecile , he scolded himself. He was harebrained indeed.