Page 46 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Reject me ... Was it a veiled reference to her cruel rejection of his offer of marriage? She was imagining things. If he’d recognized her he would have tossed her out by now, demanded an explanation, or alerted Sterling Benton. But he had done none of these, as far as she knew.

She swallowed. “No, sir.”

He led her through the steps of the dance, formed those vague half smiles of acknowledgment when they faced or passed one another, but showed little of the warmth he had displayed with Mrs. Budgeon.

He had known the housekeeper for years, she reminded herself.

And he knew “Nora” not at all, even if she had done him and his steward a good turn that night in London.

She thought of other long-ago nights, when they had danced together at this ball or that.

Then he had looked at her with admiration, nearly adoration, in his serious, bespectacled eyes.

His fingers had lingered on her hand, her waist, whenever the steps and positions of the dance brought them together.

Now his eyes were distant, his closed-mouth smile false, his hand cool and quick to depart.

The ballrooms had been larger then, the guests wealthier, the music finer, but if he would only smile at her—truly smile—she would rate this night with this company the more enjoyable occasion.

When the silence between them became strained, he asked politely, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the music to your liking?”

“Yes. Very nice.” What a ninny she was. Why could she not think of one appropriate thing to say?

He asked, “Are the others enjoying themselves, do you think?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Is this your first servants’ ball?”

“As a mai—matter of fact, yes.”

“And how are you getting on in your position here?”

“Better, I think. Thank you for asking.” She licked her lips and forged a question of her own. “And how fares your father, sir, if I may ask?”

“He fares well, according to his last letter. Thank you for asking.”

Margaret was relieved when the dance ended and Mr. Upchurch escorted her to the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell.

Helen Upchurch, she noticed, was talking to Mr. Arnold, with whom she had danced the second dance. How puffed up the under butler appeared, swaggering across the room with the lady of the house on his arm.

After the customary two dances, master and mistress took their leave of the party, thanking Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson, shaking hands, and bestowing a general farewell wave to the assembly on their way out.

Part of Margaret was disappointed they were leaving, but the others were apparently relieved, for the tension in the room faded when the two departed and a relaxed buzz of conversation and laughter rose.

One person, however, did not look happy. Monsieur Fournier. Margaret saw him leaning against the wall, empty glass dangling in his hand, watching Mrs. Budgeon’s every move.

Margaret strolled nonchalantly to the housekeeper’s side.

“Evening, Nora.”

“Mrs. Budgeon.” They watched the fiddler down another glass and wobble a bit as he asked what they wished him to play next.

Someone yelled, “ ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!”

Margaret said in a low aside, “Mrs. Budgeon, I was wondering. Is it not true that in many houses, the chef is actually higher ranking than the under butler?”

She considered this. “Yes, I believe so.”

“But Miss Upchurch danced with Mr. Arnold, and not Monsieur Fournier. I wonder if that is why he looks so... disappointed.”

A small line formed between Mrs. Budgeon’s brows. “But Miss Upchurch has already taken her leave.”

“I know. But perhaps you might at least acknowledge the slight, or offer to dance with him yourself?”

“Me? I hardly think I’m suitable replacement. I don’t imagine Monsieur even likes to dance.”

“I don’t know. I hate to see him looking so sad. He worked so hard for tonight....”

Mrs. Budgeon looked over at the chef and found him looking at her. He quickly looked away and feigned a sip from his empty glass. How strange it was to see him in a brown tweed suit, instead of his customary white coat and hat.

The housekeeper drew herself up. “Thank you, Nora. I will at least compliment Monsieur on the success of his buffet. We don’t want him to feel unappreciated.”

“Good idea.”

As Mrs. Budgeon crossed the room toward him, Monsieur Fournier straightened, pushing away from the wall. His expression was uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure if reprimand or pleasure was coming his way.

It was really too bad of her, but she couldn’t help herself. Margaret had to hear. She walked along the buffet table, plucking a grape here and a fig there as she made her way to the table’s end, listening to their conversation.

“Monsieur Fournier. Good evening.”

“Madame.”

“I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I must compliment you on the buffet. You have outdone yourself.”

“Merci, madame .”

Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I am afraid it is my fault Miss Upchurch danced the second with Mr. Arnold. An oversight, I assure you.”

“No matter, madame.”

“You don’t care to dance, I suppose?”

He hesitated. “With you?”

Her mouth parted. She reddened. “Never mind. I thought... I only meant...”

The fiddler launched into the next tune, and the chef leaned nearer to be heard. “With you, Mrs. Budgeon, I would happily dance.”

He offered his arm, and after a surprised pause, she gave a tentative smile.

Margaret smiled too. In fact, she could not stop smiling as she watched the tall, thin chef dance like a smitten, gangly youth with proper, staid Mrs. Budgeon.

But midway through the set, the fiddler, swaying and doing a little drunken jig as he played, backed into a chair, knocked his mug off the pianoforte, and crashed to the floor, out cold. Margaret was more disappointed for the chef than for anyone else that the dance should be cut short.

Mr. Arnold and Thomas carried the fiddler down the passage to the kitchen, while Betty rushed to clean up the spilled ale. After a moment’s hesitation—it still wasn’t second nature to Margaret to respond to such domestic crises—she hurried to Betty’s aid and righted the chair.

“I am afraid that concludes our ball,” Mrs. Budgeon apologized.

“Not so,” Monsieur said. “Perhaps you might play for us, Mrs. Budgeon.”

Again her mouth parted. She sputtered, “Me? No. I cannot play. Not really.”

“Of course you can. You are very accomplished. I hear you from ze kitchen now and again.”

Her face puckered, surprised and disconcerted. “But... I always check to make certain no one is about before I begin. And I shut the door as well.”

“When you play, I leave my room and come into ze kitchen to hear you better.”

She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Oh! I had no idea. I shall never play again.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “Please don’t say so. What a loss of pleasure for us both.”

Jenny, tipsy and brazen, said, “Come on, Mrs. Budgeon. Favor us with a song or two. Something lively we can dance to.”

The housekeeper wrung her hands. “But I never play for an audience. I am woefully out of practice and play very ill.”

“Not at all,” Monsieur insisted.

“None of us can play a note,” Jenny said. “So if you blunder, we wouldn’t know any better, would we?”

Mr. Hudson added gently, “You won’t find a more appreciative audience.”

“I would be too self-conscious with all of you listening.”

“Aww. We promise not to listen too close,” Craig said, his arm around Joan. “We’ll be too busy dancin’. ”

“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Budgeon relented, flustered by all the attention. “If you promise to dance and not listen for my mistakes.”

Everyone clapped and cheered and found partners for the next dance.

Monsieur Fournier stayed near the pianoforte and smiled down at its fair musician. Margaret had no partner this time but watched the dancers with pleasure.

When the song ended, Joan returned to her side, breathless and grinning. “And how are you getting on with that housemaid who barely tolerates you?”

Margaret blew out a breath between puffed cheeks. “Better, I think.”

Joan surveyed the crowd. “Which one is she?”

Margaret nodded toward Fiona, now dancing gracefully with a Hayfield footman. She marveled at the transformation. Fiona looked almost happy, and as elegant as a lady. “That’s her. Fiona.”

Joan regarded the Irishwoman thoughtfully. “I’m not surprised.” She tilted her head. “For all her smiles tonight, that one’s had a hard life. I can tell.”

Margaret asked tentatively, “And you, Joan. How is life at Hayfield—any improvement?”

Joan shrugged. “About the same. Though having this to look forward to has helped. How surprised we were to be invited.” Joan slanted her a knowing glance. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”

Margaret only shrugged.

Fred, the hall boy who had been posted upstairs on door duty, ran in and found Mr. Hudson. “Thought you should know, sir. Mr. Lewis Upchurch just arrived. Wants his horses and carriage attended to.”

Mr. Hudson frowned. “He was not expected. Thank you, Freddy.”

He dispatched the groom, who left with a good-natured groan, promising to return in a flash.

Then Mr. Hudson laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “You stay here and enjoy yourself, Freddy. I’ll mind the door.”

Fred beamed. “Awfully decent of you, sir!”

But Margaret’s mind was still echoing with Fred’s news. Lewis Upchurch had returned.

Then, before Hudson had even moved, there Lewis was, framed in the doorway, resplendent in evening attire, frock coat and cravat, as though he had just been dining out and not on the road for the last few hours. His valet, Connor, also well dressed, slipped in behind him.

Lewis surveyed the room. “What’s all this, then? A party without me? I’m crushed.” His tone was part hurt, part humor. Was he truly offended or jesting?

“Your brother knew you’d approve,” Hudson soothed, handing him a glass of punch and deftly smoothing things over. “In fact, I believe he credited you with the notion.”