Page 40 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Do nothing in your master’s house that you feel

obliged to conceal to keep your situation.

—Samuel and Sarah Adams, The Complete Servant

N athaniel and Helen once again sat talking in the family sitting room when Hudson entered.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Hello, Hudson. I was just telling Helen about your idea to hold a servants’ ball at harvest time.”

Helen gave a small smile. “I think it a marvelous notion.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “Would you mind terribly if I helped you plan it?”

Hudson pursed his lips in surprise. “I wouldn’t mind at all, miss. In fact it would be a pleasure.”

Her smile widened. “Good. It is very exciting and far too long since we have done anything for our people here. Did you do anything like it for yours in Barbados?”

Hudson knit his brows. “For the slaves, miss?”

She faltered, “Well... No, I don’t suppose that would be quite the thing.”

Nathaniel and Hudson exchanged a look.

“We had no ‘balls,’ in the English sense, no,” Hudson explained. “But the slaves celebrate the end of harvest or ‘crop over’ with dancing and feasting in the plantation yards.”

“Oh. I see.” Helen brightened. “Then this shall be the inaugural servants’ ball for the both of us. I have several ideas, but what have you thought of so far?”

Hudson rocked on his heels. “Well... there should be food, of course. A nice buffet supper.”

“I wonder if Monsieur Fournier would have any suggestions? Though perhaps we ought to hire a cook and waitstaff for the day so none of the servants have to work.”

“I doubt Monsieur Fournier will relish the thought of handing over his kitchen. But day help is an excellent idea.”

She beamed, and it did Nathaniel’s heart good to see his sister looking so happy.

“We must have music, of course,” Helen said. “And dancing.”

Hudson agreed. “Mr. Arnold informs me he knows of an excellent fiddler who plays all the country dances.”

“Wonderful.”

Nathaniel felt like a spectator at a shuttlecock match as the two batted ideas back and forth.

“And perhaps a few games or a contest?” Helen added. “A prize or two?”

“Or a small gift for everyone.”

“Very thoughtful,” she enthused. “This will be great fun, Mr. Hudson. I for one look forward to it.”

Hudson nodded slowly, eyes fastened on her bright, smiling face. “As doI.”

The following morning, Margaret entered Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to dress her hair as usual.

Helen stood at the window wearing her day dress of Devonshire brown.

When she did not turn, Margaret went to join her at the window to see what had captured her attention.

The distant clang of steel drew her gaze down to the arcade below.

There, Nathaniel Upchurch and Mr. Hudson were fencing in shirtsleeves. Through the columns, Margaret saw them advancing and retreating, lunging and striking, in an intricate fast-paced dance. Their swords clashed, circled, and struck again, morning sunshine glinting off polished blades.

Without looking away, Helen murmured, “What is it about men and swords?”

Even from a distance, Margaret could not help but admire their grace and agility.

Nor could she fail to notice the outline of Nathaniel’s broad shoulders against damp shirtsleeves.

Nor how his leg muscles strained against snug white pantaloons with each lunge.

She hoped Helen could not read her thoughts.

She glanced over and saw a strange light in Helen’s eyes as she observed her brother. Or was it Mr. Hudson she watched? Margaret hadn’t the courage to ask.

Leaving Helen at the window, Margaret took herself into the dressing room to see if anything needed to be done.

A few moments later, Helen came and sat at her dressing table.

She eyed the new arrangement of flowers Margaret had delivered earlier that morning—yellow and white chrysanthemums amid vibrant greenery.

Helen turned to smile at her, but her eyes quickly returned to the colorful flowers. “Did you arrange these?”

“I did.”

“Exquisite.”

The simple compliment pleased Margaret greatly. She was less pleased by Helen’s apparel but made no comment. By now, she was resigned to Miss Upchurch’s habit of alternating between her day dresses of grey, brown, and a dull gold color that did no favors for her sallow complexion.

Margaret picked up brush and pins to begin, only to be startled when Helen suddenly rose from her seat.

“Do you know, I believe I shall wear the green walking dress you made over for me. Such a pity to waste it. If you would kindly help me change?”

Margaret smiled. “Of course. I should be delighted.”

She brought out the dress and a pair of long stays. “The line of the gown would be so much improved by correct underpinnings, Miss Helen. Would you mind terribly?”

Helen’s face puckered at the sight of the boned contraption, but she acquiesced. “Oh, very well.”

Margaret helped Helen out of the brown dress and unstructured undergarments, then into the long stays. While Margaret worked the lacing, Helen eyed her reflection in the looking glass, tilting her chin from side to side. “And perhaps, just a touch of rouge?”

Another surprise. “With pleasure.” Curiosity nipped at Margaret. “May I ask... is today some special occasion?”

Helen colored. “Not at all. Why would you ask that? I have nothing scheduled today beyond a meeting with the steward and chef. Nothing special at all.”

Margaret and Betty sat companionably together in the servants’ hall, polishing silver. The others had long since departed to their own afternoon duties.

Betty glanced over and said, “In my last place, the butler polished the silver.”

“Really? I cannot fancy Mr. Arnold mucking his hands with polish and the like.”

Betty snorted. “Nor I, and him only an under butler.”

As they worked, Margaret noticed Betty’s freckled hands and how heavily veined and work-worn they were, more aged than the rest of her. Margaret hoped three months of labor wouldn’t do the same to her hands.

Betty was probably almost old enough to be her mother, yet they held nearly the same position. She wondered if Betty minded.

“How long have you been a housemaid, Betty?” she asked.

Betty set down a silver fork and picked up another. “Oh, fifteen years here, give or take. And eleven at the Langleys’ before that. Started as a scullery maid when I was just a girl, then moved up to kitchen maid, then housemaid. Never had to work the laundry, thank the Lord.”

“Was this your dream, then?”

“Dream?”

“What you wanted out of life.”

“Pfff.” Betty’s hand was in constant motion as she spoke. “Few indeed get what they want in life, and that’s a fact. Look at Fiona.”

Margaret glanced up quickly. “Fiona? What about Fiona?”

“Never you mind. The point is, I don’t think any little girl dreams , as you call it, of working as a scullion all her days, does she?”

“But what would you do if you could do anything?”

Betty pursed her lips. “Nora. I don’t mind chattin’ to pass the time, but it’s foolish to hanker after the past or the impossible. I am content enough. I have been in service since I were fourteen. It’s all I know and ever will, and that’s all right by me.”

Even though the words were spoken kindly, Margaret felt chastised. “I am glad to hear it,” she murmured, fastening her attention on yet another butter knife.

Betty applied silver polish to several serving spoons with vigor and skill, the topic evidently forgotten.

A few moments later, Betty said abruptly, “There is one thing.”

Margaret looked up, not sure what she was referring to.

“One thing I would like.” Betty’s focus remained on the spoons.

“What’s that?”

“I would like to be housekeeper one day. It’s the top rung, you know. And, well, if I reach that, I’ll know I’ve done my best and all I could. I would be proud to wear my mum’s chatelaine heavy with keys, commanding respect from servant and master alike.”

Margaret grinned. “Sending fear into the hearts of all the maids, you mean, when they hear the jingle of your keys.”

A small grin dimpled Betty’s cheeks. “That too.”

“I’m going to tell Mrs. Budgeon to watch her back,” Margaret teased.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Don’t worry, Betty. I won’t say a word about you hankering after her job.”

Betty slanted her a wry look and moved on to the fish forks.

Margaret said, “Honestly, I think you would be an excellent housekeeper, Betty Tidy.”

“Oh, I don’t know...”

“I for one would be proud to work for you,” Margaret insisted.

Betty’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You say that now. But Mrs. Budgeon is a pussycat compared to the housekeeper I’d be.” She tucked her chin and gave a decent impression of Mrs. Budgeon in high dudgeon, “Now get about your work, my girl. We’re not paying you to chat and idle!”

Margaret hauled yet another kettle of hot water from the kitchen into the servants’ bathing room belowstairs.

The small, tiled room held a generous double slipper tub, chair, mirror, and a shelf and hooks for clothing and towels.

She’d taken a few quick baths since she’d arrived but mostly made do with sponge baths—room temperature water from the basin in her room, a rough towel, and her weekly bar of soap.

But she didn’t feel really clean, and her scalp was beginning to itch under the wig.

She wanted a real bath. She could hardly wait to wash her hair again.

The kitchen had running water, piped in from a cistern outside. This she heated on the stove in large kettles. The house was quiet. Even the scullery maid had scrubbed her last pot and gone to bed. She ought to be sleeping too. But first, a bath.

How long it took to fill the tub! She had never given it a thought all those times she had told Joan to draw her a bath, regardless if she had just had one a day or two before.

Baths relaxed her and helped her sleep, she had justified.

How much extra work she had caused poor Joan, though the woman never complained. At least, not to Margaret directly.