Page 48 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Life in service could be very regimented and dictatorial,

with little time off and the knowledge that romantic

relations between servants were forbidden in many houses.

— Luxury and Style , “The History of Country House Staff”

Chapter 20

I n the morning, Margaret trudged downstairs beside Betty. They were both exhausted from being up so late the night before.

“Fiona looked so lovely in her gown last night,” Margaret said. “I still can’t imagine how she came by it. And did you see her dancing? So graceful and elegant. Almost as if she were a lady.”

Betty sighed wearily, eyes distant. “She might have been once.”

Margaret turned to stare at her.

“Thought she was giving up all this”—Betty lifted her housemaid’s box—“but it weren’t to be.”

Stunned, Margaret grasped Betty’s wrist to halt her progress. “What are you talking about?”

Betty winced, chagrined. “I’m tired and not thinking straight. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you have to tell me now.”

Betty shook her head. “No I don’t. And don’t you be askin’ Fiona either, my girl. That would be foolhardy indeed. Do you hear?”

Margaret nodded. Satisfied, Betty continued down the stairs, but Margaret stood there, mind whirling.

After breakfast and prayers, Margaret set about cleaning Lewis Upchurch’s bedchamber, which had been fastidiously neat until his return the night before, but which had already been marred by his presence—small clothes on the floor, bedclothes in a tangle as though he’d spent the night wrestling angels or someone more earthly, water sloshed onto the washstand, a jumble of toiletry items in disarray.

And she didn’t even want to think about what might await her in the chamber pot.

The reality of men was certainly different than the pristine image they portrayed in a ballroom.

Where was Connor? She had not seen him since morning prayers.

Even with a valet in residence, she would be expected to deliver water and empty slops first thing in the morning, and to return later to clean the room and make the bed.

But the valet was responsible for his master’s clothing.

Was Connor down in the stillroom, becoming “reacquainted” with Hester?

Margaret lofted the bedclothes high, enjoying the way they rose and billowed before settling flat.

The door behind her flew open with a bang.

She stifled a shriek and spun around, pillow to her chest. A shield.

Lewis Upchurch hesitated fractionally upon seeing her, and then a lazy grin spread over his face. “Well, well. Look who’s here. How kind of you to pay a call after our dance last night.”

He was wearing riding clothes—cutaway coat, leather breeches, Hessian boots. He looked devilishly handsome, and his light brown eyes glinted with confidence and mischief. She had always been drawn to confident men.

She dipped an awkward curtsy, pillow still in arms. “Good day, sir.”

She should have gone about her work. Instead she remained motionless, thoughts racing.

Was this an unfortunate coincidence or the answer to her plight?

Before her stood Lewis Upchurch, the very man she had sought out with marriage in mind at the Valmores’ ball, hoping to foil Sterling Benton’s plan.

Now, at last, she was alone with him—in broad daylight and behind closed doors. The thought made her palms perspire.

Should she tell him who she was? Dramatically remove her cap, wig, and spectacles and wait for realization to dawn?

Her heart pounded, her breathing grew shallow and rapid.

How would he react? Would his heart go out to her when she explained her desperate situation, or would he grimace in scandalized disgust to see Miss Macy so denigrated?

Or worse, would he sneer or flee, thinking it a desperate ploy to trick him into marriage?

“ By Jove, one moment I was in my bedchamber flirting harmlessly with a housemaid, and in the next, I was trapped by a spoiled hoyden demanding I rescue her reputation!”

Lewis walked near. “Cat got your tongue?”

Margaret swallowed. So near, yet no flicker of recognition. Should she abandon the idea while she still could? If he refused her, how humiliating that would be. What would she do then—shrug, slap her wig back on, and empty his chamber pot?

In her earlier fantasies, she had imagined a thrilling scenario.

The tragic heroine, standing on the dim balcony, staring up at the stars bemoaning her unjust fate, when handsome Lewis appeared.

One moment, he regarded a dejected housemaid with compassion.

The next, the scales fell away, and his eyes were opened.

“Of course! No wonder I thought we had met before. My soul recognized you, even if my foolish eyes did not!”

And he would put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him when she would look away. “Look at me. What is the matter?”

And she would tell him, all maidenly embarrassment and injury. And he would assure her no one would harm her. No one would touch her, except him. His hands would cradle her face.

“There you are,” he would whisper, his voice growing husky, his face, his lips nearing hers. “How I have missed you...”

“You missed something.”

“Hmm?” Shaken from her reverie, she found Lewis smirking at her. He pointed to a soiled stocking on the floor.

Cheeks heating, she bent to retrieve it. When she straightened, she saw him tugging off his gloves.

He glanced around the room with a frown. “Have you seen my valet recently?”

“No, sir.”

He muttered something derogatory about the young man, then arched an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you would like to help me undress?”

He was probably joking, but still her body flushed in indignation. “No, Mr. Upchurch, I would not.”

She turned and stalked from the room, glad she had not revealed herself to him. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she had addressed him in her normal voice, and quite haughty in the bargain.

On her way downstairs, Margaret stopped at the housemaids’ closet to gather up the lamps she had collected.

She carried them down to the butler’s pantry, where Craig would trim the candles and clean the lamps.

On her way along the basement passage, she passed the stillroom, surprised to see its door partially closed—it was usually wide open.

She glanced around the door, hoping Hester was all right.

She was more than all right, apparently. She was leaning back against her worktable, wrapped in the arms of a ginger-haired man in a dark suit of clothes. Margaret pulled back guiltily and quickly continued on her way. She had wondered where Lewis’s valet was. Now she knew.

Margaret watched Mrs. Budgeon fly about the house in a flutter of nerves and preparations.

Evidently, Lewis Upchurch had taken it upon himself to invite guests to dinner while he was home and they had insufficient staff to wait at table.

Piers Saxby, his sister, and Miss Lyons had come to Maidstone to visit the Earl of Romney and see all the improvements to his estate.

But Lewis had persuaded them to come to Fairbourne Hall first. Together with Helen, Lewis, and Nathaniel, they would be a party ofsix.

Mr. Arnold, Thomas, and Craig would wait at table, of course, as would the valet, Connor.

But that meant they would also need to find livery to fit Freddy, the hall boy.

And one of the maids would need to wait table as well.

Betty was chosen, but Mrs. Budgeon informed Fiona and Nora that they would need to lend a hand as needed, both in delivering dishes from the servery warming cupboard and carrying away lids from covered dishes and plates from used courses as the dinner progressed.

Margaret was relieved she would not be required to stand behind one of the chairs, to serve the guests directly and risk Lavinia Saxby or even Miss Lyons recognizing her.

If Helen was any indication, women were more likely to see through her disguise than men were.

The thought of venturing into the back of the dining room to deliver and carry made her nervous enough.

At seven, the guests made their way into the dining room, lit with candelabras and decorated with towering displays of fruits and flowers, which Margaret had helped the chef arrange.

Monsieur Fournier was more tense and bossy than she had ever seen him.

Not harsh, but focused and exacting, aware of the pressure to perform, to please, and well represent his employers.

Pressure exacerbated by the fact that they were all—from chef to scullery maid—out of practice in entertaining.

Young Freddy seemed especially nervous, decked in livery tacked up to shorten sleeves in haste, hair slicked back.

Betty looked somewhat flushed herself, in black dress and white cap and apron, pressed for the occasion.

Fiona, meanwhile, was cool and calm as usual.

Thomas and Craig were powdered and proud in their best livery, and Mr. Arnold oozed chin-up decorum, though Margaret noticed his hand tremble when he poured the wine.

With Fiona, Margaret carried up dish after dish from kitchen to servery, now and then peeking in to catch a glimpse of the august company.

There was Nathaniel, stiff yet undeniably masculine in evening dress.

Lewis looked handsome as always, perfectly attired and with an air of confident ease.

Piers Saxby eschewed traditional dark colors for a patterned waistcoat in apple green, his hair brushed into a high cockscomb over his brow. Fitting, Margaret thought.

Beside Helen sat Lavinia Saxby, Mr. Saxby’s sister, with whom Margaret had been at school. And between Piers and Lewis sat the beautiful brunette, Miss Barbara Lyons, whom Margaret had seen with these same two men at the London masquerade ball. How Margaret’s life had changed since then.