Page 63 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Margaret carried an armload of yellow chrysanthemums and purple verbena into the stillroom. It was late in the season, and these were the only flowers she could find to brighten the sickroom.

She drew up short at seeing Connor standing again at the worktable—Hester’s domain. “Oh. Hello, Connor. Where’s Hester?”

“She’ll be in the servants’ hall about now, I expect.”

He was in shirtsleeves, wearing a black bib-apron to protect his clothing.

Margaret nodded, then hesitated, wondering what he was doing. A mortar and pestle stood on the worktable before him, a jar of something beside it, a bit of powder spread about. “Making something for Mr. Upchurch, are you?”

He looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged easily. “Some elixir or restorative, I imagine.”

He glanced at her, then back to the worktable. “I am not an apothecary, Nora.”

She smiled at him. “Hester says you prepare your own shaving soap and hair tonic. Don’t be so modest.”

He shook his head. “I am only grinding a bit of tooth powder.”

“Then I shall leave you to it.” Margaret turned to the sideboard and set about trimming and arranging the flowers in a green glass vase.

The silence between them as they worked felt uncomfortable.

Sensing Connor was not completely at ease sharing the close quarters with a maid other than Hester, Margaret didn’t tarry over her task.

As soon as she had cleaned up after herself, she lost no time in carrying the arrangement to the library upstairs.

———

That night, Connor did not appear for supper. After grumbling about his absence, Mr. Arnold determined they would eat without him, with Mr. Hudson’s approval, of course.

“As you like,” the steward said, in his mild-mannered way.

Margaret wondered why Connor was missing the meal—it was unlikely Monsieur Fournier would save him a plate, though she guessed Hester might very well do so in secret.

Margaret hoped nothing had happened—that Lewis had not taken a turn for the worse.

She decided to check on him as soon as she had finished eating.

After the upper servants excused themselves to take their dessert and port in Mrs. Budgeon’s parlor, leaving the rest of the servants to partake of a simple bread pudding in the servants’ hall, Margaret excused herself.

This brought a raised-brow glance from Fiona, who knew how very fond of sweets Nora was.

“Shall I eat yars, then?”

“Please do.”

Margaret hurried up the passage, pausing to glance into the stillroom. Finding it empty, she continued on her way upstairs and across the hall to the sickroom.

She quietly inched open the door, slowly revealing the library—fire crackling in the hearth, oil lamp burning low on the side table beside the flowers she’d brought, Lewis’s prone figure on the bed, and Connor standing over him.

It was as she thought, he was missing his supper to check on his master.

The door creaked.

Connor whirled, dropping something from his hand. “Dash it, Nora, you startled me.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to check on you.”

“Check on me?”

“When you didn’t come down for supper, I grew worried. I thought perhaps Mr. Upchurch had taken a turn for the worse.”

The valet lifted his chin in understanding, then turned to regard Lewis. “He does seem a bit worse to me. I was worried myself. That’s why I came to sit with him.”

“Where is Mrs. Welch?”

“She excused herself to use the necessary.”

“Oh.”

“It was good of you to check on me, Nora. But why don’t you return to your supper?”

“I’ve already eaten. The others are finishing their pudding. If you hurry, I imagine Hester and Jenny will put together a plate for you.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Both stood awkwardly, looking down at Lewis Upchurch. His color seemed a little better to her, though she was no judge.

Margaret said, “It is kind of you to be so concerned for him, Connor. But you should eat something.”

Connor shrugged. “He is my responsibility, isn’t he?”

His ragged tone tugged at her heart. Had she ever inspired such loyalty in a servant? Would she? Gently, she said, “I’ll ask Hester to save your supper on the stillroom stove, shall I?”

“Thank you.”

Margaret turned to go, but then hesitated. “I think I made you drop something when I came in and startled you. Shall I help you find it?”

Connor looked about him. “Did I? Perhaps something from the toilet case. I’ll take a look after you leave.”

“I don’t mind helping.”

“Thank you. But I don’t think you want me lifting Mr. Upchurch’s bedclothes to search for it in your presence.”

Her neck heated at the thought. “You’re right. Well, see you later.”

Nathaniel stood in his bedchamber, eyeing his bed with longing.

He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to undress, climb under the bedclothes, and sleep for hours.

But his spirit was troubled. He felt drawn to pray at his brother’s bedside first. Leaving his room, he quietly descended the stairs.

At the half landing, he paused. A figure stood in the shadows, just outside the sickroom door.

For a moment, panic seized him. Had Saxby or Preston come to finish the job?

But then he realized the figure was feminine.

A girl in an apron. Mobcap askew atop dark curls.

Margaret—keeping a nighttime vigil. Such devotion.

His heart ached to see it. She’d declared she no longer had feelings for Lewis, and he wanted to believe her.

If only he could ignore the evidence of his eyes.