Page 69 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

If you have a bad servant

part with him, a diseased sheep

spoils a whole flock.

N athaniel and Helen sat in chairs pulled near Lewis’s bed in his own room at last. Lewis sat propped up with pillows. Though still weak, he had quickly regained his senses once Connor wasn’t there to administer large amounts of laudanum.

Helen raised the teacup to his lips, recalling the doctor’s admonition to give him plenty of liquids.

Lewis sipped, then shook his head. “To think I trusted him.”

Helen bit her lip, then whispered, “As his sister trusted you?”

He glanced at her, then away. “She wasn’t complaining.”

“She is sixteen , Lewis. You must have seemed a god to her. Wealthy and handsome. And old enough to know better.”

He slanted her another glance, then looked at Nate. “So what have you done with him? Has he gone to prison?”

“Connor is on a ship bound for Barbados as we speak.”

Lewis frowned. “What?”

“Nathaniel and Mr. Hudson procured a place for him with an acquaintance returning to the West Indies,” Helen explained.

“But he shot me, tried to—”

Nathaniel cut off his protests before Lewis could work himself into a lather.

“Prison means a trial, Lewis. A trial in which your part would be made quite public. In Connor’s mind it was a duel for his sister’s honor.

In all truth, I cannot say I completely blame him.

If someone treated Helen the way you treated that poor girl”—Nathaniel’s voice shook—“I might very well have done the same.”

Disgust filled him, but he would not lash out at his brother when he was still so weak. He inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Even so, we thought you might sleep better knowing the young man was out of the country.”

Their stillroom maid had begged to go with Connor and would soon be his wife, but Nathaniel did not think Lewis would appreciate the concession and didn’t mention it.

Lewis said nothing for several ticks of the clock, staring at his hands. “And what of the sister?”

With a glance at Nathaniel, Helen said quietly, “She has been settled with relatives. Far away.”

Lewis nodded, lifting his gaze to stare at the striped wallpaper. “Fine by me. She’d grown tiresome of late.”

Inwardly Nathaniel’s anger turned to pity and prayer. Would his brother never change his ways?

Helen offered Lewis more tea, but he waved the cup away, eyes distant. “Still, I shall find her again if I decide to. See if I don’t.”

Pain flashed in Helen’s eyes. Pain and disappointment. “I do see.” She opened her mouth to say more, hesitated, and then instead turned to Nathaniel.

“When you returned from Barbados, I was less than kind to you. I misjudged you, and I apologize. I see now that your motivations were honorable. Your actions meant to protect our family. Thank you.”

Nathaniel’s heart squeezed.

She turned back to their older brother, expression tight. “Lewis, for all your charm and good looks, you are...” She broke off, and tears flowed in place of the unspoken words. Her voice thick, she whispered, “But I never could hear a word against you.”

———

Later that day, Nathaniel sat with his steward and his sister in the library, thankful for the fact that it no longer served double duty as sickroom. Nathaniel enjoyed having the private use of the library once more, though Helen still spent more time there than she had before. As did Hudson.

Robert Hudson rubbed his palms together. “What shall we take on next, sir? New plans for drainage? Expanding the orchards? Another trip to London?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Budgeon knocked on the open doorjamb.

“Mr. Hudson, sorry to disturb you, but the candidates are here. Should you like to sit in on the interviews?”

Hudson pulled a face. “Mrs. Budgeon, I have every confidence in your ability to hire a suitable stillroom maid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hudson. And please do remember the annual inspection of linens and livery is at three.”

“How could I forget?” He smiled wryly, and the housekeeper departed.

Helen watched the exchange with interest. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Hudson, but life in service doesn’t seem to suit you.”

Hurt and defensiveness crossed his face. “I am sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

“Not at all. But it is clear to me you are ambitious and capable of a much more self-directed life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Miss Helen.”

“It is. Good heavens, have I been such a shrew you don’t recognize praise from me when you hear it?”

“No, miss. But nor do I take praise from your lips lightly.”

She inclined her head. “I think you could accomplish anything you set your mind to.”

He looked at her significantly. “Anything?”

She blushed. “I refer to business, of course.”

Arnold came in with a special delivery on a tray. Nathaniel’s heart surged to see the familiar handwriting. The much-anticipated letter.

He waved it to gain Helen’s attention. “A letter from Father.”

Helen pressed a hand to her chest. “What does he say?”

Hudson, Nathaniel noticed, gave Helen’s arm a discreet, comforting squeeze.

Nathaniel unfolded the letter and read the first line. “He assures us he is well.”

Helen pressed her eyes closed and sighed. “Thank God.”

He continued to read. Paused. Blinked his eyes, then read the words again. Stunned, he handed the letter to his sister.

For several moments Helen read silently, frowned, then stared up at him, eyes wide. “Good heavens. I have never known him to be so... Apparently he was quite shaken by the revolt, the brutality of the soldiers, the confessions of the implicated slaves....”

“Does he say what I think he says?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe so. He says... he says you were right, Nathaniel. And he vows to put into motion your plans to extricate our family from any involvement with slavery.”

Nathaniel released a long exhale. “I was afraid to believe my eyes.”

His heart lifted. Sitting there with his sister and friend, and knowing that his father and brother were safe, Nathaniel had a sudden longing to see another quite dear to him.

Margaret dusted the desk in Nathaniel’s bedchamber, careful not to knock over the candle lamp nor break anything else of his. The door opened behind her, and she turned, startled. It was Nathaniel himself.

She backed up a step, disconcerted by the look in his eye.

He stepped forward.

“What is it?” she asked. She held the feather duster before her like a sword.

He advanced, eyes riveted on hers. “Seeing you puts me in mind of a piece of French chocolate.”

She swallowed and took another step backward.

“If one wants to discover what is inside, one must first remove the foreign wrapping.”

The odd light in his eyes both mesmerized and frightened her. She wanted to run; she wanted to stay. Her body, nerves tingling, mind whirling, refused to move. Like a hare cornered by a fox about to pounce, she could only stare, eyes wide. Frozen.

He was only a foot away from her now.

He lifted both hands toward her face. She leaned her head back to evade his reach, but her head came to rest against the wall.

He touched not her face, but her spectacles, gently unhooking them from her ears and lifting them from her nose. “You don’t really need these, do you,” he murmured.

“I do, actually,” she whispered, but he continued on, setting the spectacles on the desk.

He returned his gaze to her face. A gaze too penetrating for comfort. She was torn between wanting to look away and wanting to sink into those intense sea-storm eyes.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her.

“I hope you don’t think me rude for mentioning it, but you have a little something on your face.

” He withdrew his handkerchief, dipped it into the pitcher and came forward with it.

She tipped her head back, but he grasped her chin in his long fingers, gently but firmly, and wiped first at one eyebrow, then the other.

“A bit of soot, perhaps,” he said and tossed the handkerchief aside. “From your work with the grates, no doubt.”

“I...” she faltered but could form no further words, because now both his hands touched her skin. His fingertips slid over her cheeks and jaw, cupping her face, while his thumbs reached up to rub arcs over each eyebrow, the fine hairs bristling to life under his touch.

Her heart thudded. He knew. He had to know. Was he not surprised to find blond brows beneath the dark? He did not appear surprised.

Emotions crossed his features like lightning dancing across the sky, sparking behind his eyes. “And this cap doesn’t suit you. I’m sorry to say something so ungallant, but there it is. Do you mind?”

She licked her lips. A tremor passed through her, of anticipation, of fear, of hope.

If he didn’t know, if he had merely removed her spectacles to see her face more clearly, to ease his way toward—her chest ached to even think the phrase— kissing her.

If he really had mistaken her darkened brows for soot. ..

But beneath her cap lay a wig. A wig could be mistaken for nothing but disguise, unless she were bald beneath! No, he must know.

He raised his hands when she would have happily endured them on her face far longer. He peeled off the cap and tossed it on the desk. Again he regarded her. “I am afraid, miss, that your hair, if hair it can be called, does not suit you either. May I?”

Yes, he definitely knew. He did not seem angry, as she would have guessed. Or was he so self-possessed that it did not show? How in control of himself, of the situation, of her, he seemed.

He gave a gentle pull, but the wig caught at its anchor pins, stinging her scalp.