Page 51 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Margaret longed to rush into the hall and set the two young women straight, but her appearance would cause more scandal than it alleviated.

Perhaps she ought to write to Emily. Did Sterling have his tentacles in the Lathrop post as he did in his own house? She had to do something. As it was, her quest to spare her virtue seemed to be laying ruin to her reputation.

When the tour moved on and the hall was empty once more, Margaret lingered, quietly crossing the marble floor.

She stood before Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch.

Their portraits, at any rate. She first regarded Lewis.

The artist had skillfully captured the mischievous light in his golden-brown eyes and the hint of a smirk about his full mouth, as though he possessed a secret he was eager to tell.

His nose was perfect, his features so well formed that he was almost beautiful. And knew it.

She turned her head to study Nathaniel’s likeness.

This was the Nathaniel of old. He did not wear spectacles in the portrait, but he did wear his somber expression.

His face appeared pale and his thin mouth nearly prim.

The artist had not treated kindly his long, pointed nose, but had painted it in bold, unforgiving strokes.

His eyes—had she ever looked so closely at his eyes before?

—were a stormy bluish green. His hair, darker than Lewis’s, was thick and straight, lacking the rich curl of his elder brother’s.

Margaret thought, of the two, only Lewis’s portrait flattered its subject.

Even so, Nathaniel did have a good face, she decided, agreeing with the earlier assessment of Emily’s cousin. Strong, serious, masculine.

Glimpsing a thin cobweb in the corner of the frame, she unconsciously lifted the portrait brush from the housemaid’s box still in her hand, a nearly natural extension of her arm.

She flicked away the offending filament.

The brush lingered, and she gently dusted Nathaniel’s portrait with a feathery touch—the firm cheek, the long nose, strong jaw, and stern mouth, wishing she might once again see him smile.

The echoing approach of footsteps on marble startled her. She swiftly turned, muscles tense, then relaxed to see it was only Mr. Hudson.

“How diligent you are. Even keeping Mr. Upchurch in shipshape.” His brown eyes glinted with humor. “What do you think, Nora. Does that old thing do him justice?”

She shook her head. “Not at all, sir.”

“Oh?” He reared back on his heels, clearly expecting nothing more than a smile or self-conscious assent. He considered the painting once more. “You are quite right, Nora. How dour he looks in that pose.”

“Mr. Upchurch rarely smiles, sir.”

Hudson’s brows rose as he regarded her, then he looked back at the portrait, his lower lip protruding in thought. “He used to smile more often. I particularly remember several happy occasions in Barbados....”

A throat cleared to their left. Both Margaret and Mr. Hudson turned their heads, and she was surprised and chagrined to find Nathaniel Upchurch standing in the library doorway.

Hudson winced. “Forgive us, sir. We meant no harm. Only deciding that this portrait doesn’t do you justice. Is that not right, Nora?”

Margaret ducked her head, nodding stiffly.

Nathaniel crossed his arms. “And what do you find lacking?”

She hoped he was addressing Mr. Hudson, but glancing up, she found Nathaniel’s piercing eyes riveted on her. She squirmed. “Na—nothing, sir. Only that, in reality, you are more... That is, you have changed.... In appearance, I mean, and...”

He said dryly, “Are you suggesting I have improved with age?”

She swallowed. “Yes, actually.” She dared add, “A smile might improve your looks all the more.”

He frowned. “I have had little cause to smile of late.”

Hudson looked from one to the other. “Well, we shall have to work on that, Nora, shan’t we.” He chuckled and blithely winked at her.

Under Nathaniel’s unwavering stare, Margaret’s cheeks heated. She murmured, “Yes, sir,” and excused herself, fleeing to safety belowstairs.

It was after midnight when Nathaniel walked through the upstairs sitting room on his way to the balcony.

He could not sleep and hoped the crisp night air would help clear his head.

His mind would not stop spinning with questions.

What to do about his damaged ship, his brother, his sister, his housemaid. ..

Almighty God, make clear to me my path. Help me to do your will.

He pushed open the balcony door and stepped outside. A gasp startled him, and he tensed to full alert, as though “Pirate” Preston had just leapt over the railing.

But the figure at the far end of the balcony was no criminal. A threat? Yes, she certainly was that.

“Beg pardon, sir.” Nora—Margaret—ducked her head and stepped back from the railing.

He said, “No need to rush off on my account.”

“But you will want your solitude. I should not be here.”

He supposed that was true. But he was suddenly eager she remain. Had he so soon forgotten his determination to avoid the pain of her presence like the plague itself?

“Please stay,” he said.

Apparently he had.

She hesitated, then turned and gripped the railing once more.

He was relieved she did not ask why. His only answer could have been, “Because I am a fool.”

She looked up, at the stars he supposed, or perhaps simply to avoid his gaze.

“That’s the North Star.” He pointed. “The bright one there. Do you seeit?”

She followed his finger. “Yes.”

“How many nights I looked for her on the voyage home. A favorite lady with our sailing master.”

She nodded but was silent. He assumed he had failed to engage her in conversation.

But a moment later she asked quietly, “Did you enjoy the sea, sir?”

Satisfaction. “I did, though my return was not without its losses.”

He felt her gaze, and looked over to find her watching him, brows quirked in expectation.

She wore her spectacles, but he noticed her customary dark fringe was missing.

Instead, her cap was pulled down low, her hair tucked up in it.

Even so, she looked more like herself without all that dark hair around her face.

He asked, “Do your spectacles help you see things in the distance—like those stars?”

She looked back up at the stars, then tucked her chin to look over the top of the lenses. “Yes.”

“I used to wear spectacles most of the time, until I realized all I really needed them for was reading and close work.”

She nodded, then asked quietly, “You spoke of losses?”

He grimaced. “We were attacked at the docks by a man we knew in Barbados. Calls himself the Poet Pirate nowadays. Wasn’t terribly poetic of him to rob and burn my ship.”

She shook her head in sympathy. “Mr. Hudson mentioned it. How sorry I was to hear it.”

“That’s why I was insensible the night Hudson drove the coach and lost his way. He’d taken me to a nearby surgeon the customs house recommended. The man dressed my wounds and was overly generous with the laudanum.”

She nodded her understanding once more.

Studying her profile, he asked quietly, “And how did you lose your way? How did you end up near the docks, then in Maidstone?”

“Tryin’ to avoid trouble, I suppose.”

“What sort of trouble?”

She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

“Were you... let go, for some reason? I promise it shall not jeopardize your situation here.”

“It wasn’t anything like that, sir. What I mean is... One of the men in the house, he made things... difficult for me.”

“Difficult, how?”

She fidgeted, then whispered, “I’d rather not say.”

“Had you no recourse, no friend or relative to protect you?”

She shook her head, once again staring up at the stars. “I found myself thinkin’ of Joseph. When Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him, he fled, didn’t he? He ran and ran fast without thinkin’ ahead to the consequences, without lookin’ back.”

“So that’s what you did.”

She nodded.

He grinned wryly. “Joseph ended up in prison, you know.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “I forgot that part.”

“I trust Fairbourne Hall is a better fate than prison. You are treated with respect, I hope?”

“Yes, sir, that is...” She faltered, began again. “Everyone on staff has been very kind.”

He stiffened at her hesitation. Had Lewis trifled with her? “Miss—Nora. If anyone dares... If anyone bothers you, you must not hesitate to tell me. At once. I will”— kill the man— “reprimand severely any man who mistreats you. Do you understand?”

Tears filling her eyes, she nodded, but did not speak.

Dash it. “I’m sorry. I... didn’t mean to upset you.” What an idiot I am.

She shook her head. “I’m fine. My hardships are little to yours. Is your ship lost completely?”

He sighed, looking up. “No, but the costs to repair it will be higher than that star.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” She hesitated. “Was her name... the Ecclesia ?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It was the name on your model ship.” She looked sheepish about breaking it over again.

“Ah. Yes— Ecclesia. Latin for ‘church.’ ”

“Clever.”

“I once thought so. But I don’t think myself very clever these days.”

Her profile was painfully familiar by moonlight as she gazed up at the night sky. He was tempted to reveal that he knew who she was, ask why she was hiding, and offer to help her. But would she be mortified to be discovered in such a humbling role? Would she thank him or curse him for exposing her?

He bit his tongue. Why should he want to help her?

Had she not proven herself fickle and shallow?

But somehow, looking at her now, he saw none of those traits.

He saw a shadow of the loneliness he felt inside himself.

A quiet desperation to fix something broken.

He knew what was broken in his life—his family’s finances, his ship, his sister’s heart.

.. and his own. But what was broken in Miss Macy’s life, and how did running away fix it?

He decided to bide his time. “Nora. You came to our aid—Hudson’s and mine—and I am grateful. If there is any way we... I... can return the favor, you need only ask.”

She looked over at him, pale eyes wide and silvery in the moonlight.

She opened her mouth as though to respond, to confide in him, but instead pressed her lips together.

Lips he had longed to kiss for years..

. and heaven help him, still did. Warmth swept through him at the thought of the kiss they had shared, at least in his dreams.

She whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” Once again she hesitated, then dipped her head. “And now I shall bid you good-night.”

She had forgotten to use a working class accent in her final words, but he made no comment. He liked hearing her voice. Her real voice. “Good night, Nora.”

In his mind, he added, “Good night, Margaret.”