Page 45 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

The servants’ ball was a recurring feature

of country-house life.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs

T he date of the servants’ ball arrived at last, and very little work was accomplished that day.

In some ways, it was unfortunate Miss Helen had acted upon Margaret’s suggestion and invited outside guests, because that news caused Mrs. Budgeon to demand the house receive a more thorough cleaning and polishing than usual.

But the staff had finished that work the day before.

The servants’ hall was closed once the midday meal was over, and only Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Hudson, and the hall boy were allowed in, readying the room for the night’s festivities.

Monsieur Fournier labored all day, preparing not only the family’s meals, but also a lavish buffet for the ball.

But he seemed happy with the extra work, grinning and humming to himself in an amusing compote of English, French, and foolishness.

His hands flew about, dusting this dish with sugar, and that with sprigs of mint.

“Tonight you shall see what you have been missing! Zen tomorrow it is back to burnt sausages and gruel. Quel dommage! ”

Margaret offered to arrange Betty’s hair for the occasion, and before she knew it, she had four other women clustered around her in Miss Nash’s room, begging to be next. Margaret curled, pinned, powdered, and rouged, but kept her kohl pencil well concealed. She didn’t want to give anyone ideas.

Fiona wore her own gown but did accept a pair of long gloves and allowed Margaret to dress her hair with a comb of silk flowers.

Betty, Hester, Jenny, and Hannah wore the made-over gowns.

Margaret demurred when they insisted she should wear one of them, since she had done the work, but she did not wish to draw attention to herself.

Especially since she knew Nathaniel Upchurch would be in attendance for at least the first few dances.

And what of Joan? She hoped her former maid would not give her away.

Margaret donned the blue dress she had worn at the masquerade ball, but without an apron. In place of her mobcap, she wore a wide blue ribbon as a headband—for ornamentation yes, but also to assure her wig stayed in place during the dancing.

At half past six, the first carriage rattled up the drive from Hayfield, soon followed by a wagon loaded with men young and old in Sunday best. At seven, the doors to the servants’ hall were thrown wide.

The long room gleamed with candles dressed in ivy and strung with garlands of colored paper.

Wooden boards had been laid over the stone floor for dancing.

The buffet table boasted a centerpiece of colorful mums, fresh fruit, and fronds—which Margaret had helped to arrange.

Surrounding it were serving dishes resplendent with roasted turkey, salads of every description, and the largest baked salmon she had ever seen swimming in a sea of shrimp sauce, mouth ajar, eyes glassy, curved at head and tail to fit on the platter.

There were also delicious-looking desserts—miniature gooseberry tarts, blancmange, and syllabub in tall glasses.

Knowing the attendees were likely to drink a little wine punch or ale, Miss Helen and Mr. Hudson had thought it wise to serve food throughout, instead of waiting for a late supper.

Margaret watched nervously as the guests arrived, waiting to see Joan. She hoped the harsh housekeeper had allowed her to attend.

Then, there she was, in the same blue dress Margaret remembered but without an apron.

Instead of a cap, a string of beads ornamented her carefully arranged hair.

Joan did not look her way. Was she ignoring her?

Were they supposed to pretend they did not know one another, to avoid questions of how they had met?

But Margaret longed to speak to her again, even as she fearedit.

She waited while Joan greeted Mr. Hudson and Mrs. Budgeon, in the role of host and hostess for the evening. Impulsively, she poured two cups of punch and carried them to Joan, hoping her peace offering would not be rejected.

“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively, braving a smile.

Joan’s eyes widened. “Miss—!”

“Nora. It’s just Nora.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with her former maid. “I’ve brought you some punch.”

Joan eyed it almost warily, Margaret realized with chagrin. Had she given her so much reason to distrust her?

“Imagine that. You servin’ me,” Joan quipped, making no move to take the glass.

“I have some experience at it now. Though nothing to you, of course. I never realized how hard you worked until I came here.”

Joan cocked her head to one side, as if gauging her sincerity. “Is thatso?”

“It is.”

“Then I shall have that punch and thank you.” She accepted the glass at last and lifted it in a toast.

Margaret returned the gesture, and they both sipped.

Margaret said, “I was hoping you would be here.”

“Were you? I figured you gave up and went home since I saw you last.”

“I was tempted more than once, I can tell you. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”

Joan shook her head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it. You... a housemaid.”

Margaret nodded. “Though not a very good one.”

Joan’s eyes danced. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a mouse in the corner the first time you had to empty the slops.”

Margaret chuckled. “Don’t remind me.” She bit her lip, smile fading. “I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for... well, everything. And to thank you for helping me.”

Again Joan shook her head. “Sorry and thank you... I never thought to hear those two words from you.”

Margaret grimaced. “I’m sorry for that too.”

Tears blurred her eyes. And she was surprised when answering tears brightened Joan’s eyes as well.

Her former maid gripped her fingers. “Now, that’s enough of that. This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”

Margaret returned her watery smile.

A voice at her elbow interrupted them.

“And who is this pretty lady you’re talking to, Nora?” the second footman, Craig, asked, all eagerness. “Do introduce me.”

Margaret grinned first at Joan, then Craig. “Miss Joan Hurdle, may I present Craig... I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

“Craig is my last name! But we already had a Thomas, didn’t we?”

“Oh. Well then, may I present Mr. Thomas Craig.”

“How do you do?” Joan dipped her head.

“A great deal better now you’re here. Say you’ll save a dance for me, Miss Joan, and I shall do better yet.”

Joan smiled. “Very well.”

How pretty Joan looked when she smiled. How had Margaret not noticed that before?

The fiddler arrived late—and somewhat tipsy, Margaret surmised as he began warming up his bow.

On cue, Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, Helen on his arm.

The crowd instantly quieted in awkward solemnity.

Margaret had been so busy helping the other maids prepare for the ball, that she had neglected Miss Upchurch.

A pity too. For her hair lay flat and severely pulled back.

Her face bare. Her dress... What a horrid old thing.

Someone had taken a ball dress at least a decade old and added a new ruffled neckline and flounces in a contrasting color and ill-suited material.

Still, when Helen looked around the candlelit room and the finely turned out crowd, she smiled broadly, and with that smile she was a real beauty.

“How well you all look!” She beamed.

“Indeed,” Mr. Upchurch agreed. “Now don’t stop enjoying yourselves on our account.” He nodded to the fiddler, who then struck up the notes of the first dance.

As expected, Nathaniel stepped before Mrs. Budgeon, bowed, and asked her for the first dance.

Likewise, Mr. Hudson, as the top-ranking male servant, bowed before his mistress.

Margaret wondered if sour Mr. Arnold minded the newcomer usurping this honor, but one glance told her Mr. Arnold was busy enjoying yet another cup of punch and liberal samplings of the tempting buffet.

The fiddler played a lively Scottish reel and a few other couples filled in.

Margaret watched Nathaniel, surprised to see that he was a better dancer than she remembered, impressed to witness the warmth and respect with which he exchanged pleasantries with his housekeeper.

She also watched Miss Upchurch as she danced with Mr. Hudson.

They bounded through the steps in lively abandon.

Mr. Hudson’s form was a bit ungainly, but he had never seemed so young and handsome as he did while dancing with Miss Upchurch.

Margaret wondered if she glimpsed admiration in Miss Helen’s eyes for the house steward as well.

She wished again she had taken time with Helen’s hair.

Craig and Joan danced near them in a jaunty facsimile of the steps, their smiles and shy glances more evident than skill.

After the reel “Speed the Plow” was called, Mr. Upchurch escorted Mrs. Budgeon to the edge of the room, bowed, then asked whom he should lead out next. Mrs. Budgeon looked around to locate the upper housemaid, Margaret guessed, but Betty stood behind Mr. Arnold frantically gesturing to be spared.

“Ah. Betty is occupied at present,” Mrs. Budgeon said. “Perhaps the newest member of our staff might receive the honor?” She gestured toward Margaret.

Why had she so blatantly been looking at Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret lamented. The woman must think she was begging a partner!

Nathaniel Upchurch looked her way. Did he hesitate? There was no smile on his face as he nodded to Mrs. Budgeon and walked toward her. Should she demur as well?

He stopped before her and she trained her gaze on his waistcoat, too nervous to look up at him.

“Might I have this dance, Nora?”

“Oh. I thought... I am hardly an upper servant.”

“Apparently the first housemaid is avoiding me like the plague. I trust you will not reject me as well.”