Young persons, on their first entering into service, should
endeavor to divest themselves of former habits, and devote
themselves to the control of those whom they engage to serve.

—Samuel and Sarah Adams, The Complete Servant, 1825

Chapter 6

Finally, the stoic cook heaved a sigh, lifted a beefy ankle over the rope and slogged down the cobbled street. The old man sheathed his whittling knife and rose.

“Best head on home, lass,” he said.

Home. Margaret could not return even if she wanted to. And truly, she did not think of Sterling Benton’s house as her home. The real home of her heart was still the home of her childhood. Even the name—Lime Tree Lodge—brought waves of wistful longing, conjured up memories of good smells and warm embraces, of laughter and horse rides and love. Would she never have a real home again? She felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them away. She would. She would find a way to survive the next three months and then claim her inheritance. She would buy a house of her own—perhaps even Lime Tree Lodge, were it ever offered for sale—and invite her sister and brother to live with her, once they were of age.

Even as the thoughts spun through her mind, she knew deep in her heart they were unrealistic. Her sister would marry. Her brother would have a career and eventually a wife and want a home of his own—perhaps a vicarage if he went into the church. Even so, thoughts of her future independence bolstered her courage and Margaret dried her tears.

Around her, farmers loaded remaining produce back into their wagons. The last of the shoppers hauled baskets toward waiting carts and carriages. Margaret’s stomach gurgled a rude complaint. Perhaps a farmer would be willing to give her a bruised apple or the butcher’s lad might part with an unsold pie. The notion of asking was tantamount to begging and caused her stomach to churn, nearly overpowering the hunger. What should she do—take her own advice and go door-to-door seeking a place? Or find some almshouse or church that might allow her to sleep under its roof? Oh, merciful God. I know I have neglected you. I know I have no right to ask you to help me. But I do. Please help me.

“Hello . . .”

Margaret looked up, startled, into the face of a man standing a few feet away. She had not even noticed him approach. He was a sturdy man in his midthirties, with broad, sloping shoulders and a slightly protruding middle. His hair was light brown, as were his eyes. His features were rounded, pleasant, and for some reason, familiar.

He studied her closely, which discomfited her. She hoped he was not one of those men, looking for one of those women. He did not look the part and, hopefully, neither did she, but she no longer trusted her first impressions of men.

Perhaps noticing how she dodged his too-direct eye contact, he glanced down. She followed his gaze and realized he was looking at the hairbrush hanging limp in her hand.

“Are you . . . ?” he began, with a quizzical lift of his brows.

She cut him off, eager in the presence of a prospective employer. “Oh! I was hoping to find a place.” She reminded herself to disguise her voice—but only a little. After all she didn’t wish to be hired as a scullery maid. “As a companion or governess, ideally. Have you any children?”

He ducked his head. “I haven’t any children, no. But—”

“Or perhaps a lady’s maid—hence the brush.” She gave the hairbrush a vague lift. “Or even a housemaid,” Margaret added, hating how desperate she sounded.

He looked at her, head cocked to the side. “You are seeking a place here in Maidstone?”

It seemed an obvious question. “Well . . . yes.”

A crease formed between his brows. “You don’t remember me.”

She frowned, faltering as she looked at him. “I . . .”

“Are you not the young woman who helped me avoid a run-in with ne’er-do-wells only last night?”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh! I thought you looked familiar.”

“I confess myself stunned to see you here when I imagined our guardian angel still snug in London. I hope you did not have to leave on our account. Did that lot threaten you as well?”

“Well, yes . . .” It seemed the simplest explanation. “And as I was only a guest there. . .” She let her words trail away.

“Well then. How fortunate that you were on hand when we wandered off course. Allow me to thank you.”

“It was nothing. I was happy to help.”

He inhaled through wide nostrils. “So . . . you are seeking a post?”

“Yes, it seems that I am.”

Dimples appeared in his round cheeks and amusement shone in his eyes. “Have you ever been in service before?”

“No . . . That is, well, in my last . . . place, I had the care of a young lady, helping her dress, arranging her hair, reading to her, escorting her on calls, hearing her prayers . . .” She was rambling, she realized. She had done all these things with Caroline. Still she hated to lie. Her father had taught her to prize honesty and shun falsehood. For one dark second she was almost relieved he was not alive to see her at that moment.

The man said, “The mistress isn’t convinced she needs another lady’s maid, though the last one has retired. So I cannot offer you a chance to put that fine hairbrush of yours to use. Still, one good turn deserves another. I can offer you a position as under housemaid, assuming you’re willing to learn.”

Margaret Macy—a housemaid? The thought was both mortifying and frightening. She would have no idea what to do.

But neither could she afford to pass up this opportunity, assuming the offer was legitimate and the man offering it trustworthy.

Tentatively she began, “May I ask why your wife doesn’t want a lady’s maid?”

His face colored. “She is not my wife. Nor I the master. You misunderstand me. I am the house steward. As to why the lady of the house wishes no maid of her own, it is not for me to say. I understand the upper housemaid helps her”—he colored all the more and faltered—“dress . . . and whatnot.”

“I see.”

He offered her ten pounds per annum—more, she realized with chagrin, than Joan had been offered, and she an experienced maid.

“Does that sound fair?” he asked.

She forced a smile. “Yes.”

“When can you start?”

“Right now, I suppose.”

“Do you need to let someone know, or gather your things, or . . . ?”

“I have everything here.” She lifted her bag, thinking, And nowhere else to sleep.

“Very well. This way.”

She stepped over the rope and followed him down the High Street to a line of waiting carriages. She felt ill at ease, putting herself in the hands of this stranger, kind though he seemed on the surface.

As they walked, he said, “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Mr. Hudson. And may I know your name?”

She gave the name she and Joan had decided upon—Nora Garret. Nora from her middle name, Elinor. And Garret from Margaret.

“A pleasure to meet you, Nora.”

He paused before a stately old carriage, and she recognized it as the one she had seen from Peg’s window back in London. She was still stunned he had recognized her, stunned he should hire her because he did. This knowledge soothed the nagging worry that he had hired her with dishonorable intentions. He had not even asked for a character reference and could not in truth have hired her based on her qualifications. If he had hired her out of gratitude, she could live with that.

She hoped the other servants would be as understanding.

“Allow me to give you a hand up.”

Only belatedly did she realize he referred not to helping her inside the coach but rather to the coachman’s bench outside.

“The master is within, you understand.”

After Mr. Hudson had helped her up, he paused to open the coach door and exchange a few words with the man inside. Then he untied the reins and climbed up himself, the coach lurching, then righting itself under his weight.

Margaret had ridden beside her father countless times in his gig, but sitting beside a strange man was far less comfortable. She wondered where the coachman was and why the steward took the reins.

“Have we far to go?” Margaret asked as they rattled down the cobbled street, quickly leaving the busy town center behind.

“Not far. Fairbourne Hall is a mile or so southeast of town.”

Fairbourne Hall? The name rang in her memory, and a queasy feeling stirred her stomach, not entirely caused by the swaying of the coach. It could not be. She must be mistaken. She had never been to the Upchurch country estate, only to the town house they kept in London. Still she believed she remembered both Nathaniel and Lewis Upchurch mentioning their family home. How had she forgotten it was near Maidstone?

And now the master was “within.” Perhaps Mr. Hudson referred to Mr. Upchurch senior. But Margaret was certain James Upchurch was still in Barbados. Of course, she had thought Nathaniel still there as well until the night of the masquerade ball.

She licked dry lips. “May I ask about the man I saw in the coach? Is he all right?”

“He was injured last night when his ship was set on fire.”

“How dreadful.”

He nodded. “I took him to a surgeon after it happened. I didn’t like the looks of the fellow, so after we left you, we spent the night at an inn and saw a physician this morning before we left town. Says he’ll be all right. In fact, I had only stopped in Maidstone to fill the physician’s order for salve when I happened to see you.”

She looked at his bandaged hand. “You were injured as well?”

He shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

“But you were on the ship too?”

“Yes, though regrettably of no help to him. Mr. Upchurch had to drag me from the burning ship.”

Mr. Upchurch. Her heart thudded. Then it was true. She had just been hired as a maid in the home of two former suitors. . . .

“Good heavens,” she murmured. She could barely take it in. She had planned only a few days ago to seek out Lewis Upchurch privately, perhaps even to brazenly hint they marry. Of course, seeing him so enthralled with another woman had dashed those plans. But she would never want him to see her like this, so bedraggled looking and in such mortifying circumstances.

She very much wanted to ask which Mr. Upchurch he referred to, but knew revealing she was acquainted with the family would put her at risk of discovery. As far as she knew, Lewis was no longer involved in the family business and would not have been the one dealing with Upchurch sugar ships.

Instead she asked, “Had you been overtaken by the smoke?”

“No. Wasn’t the smoke that overtook me, but a crafty scoundrel with a club to my head.”

“No!”

“Yes. You’ve heard of the thief folks call the Poet Pirate?”

“Yes. But I thought he was only a legend.”

“A legend with flesh and bones. And a grudge. Now, I best say no more. Mr. Upchurch would not want me spreading his troubles.”

Margaret remembered what Emily had said at the Valmores’ ball—that Nathaniel looked like a pirate and might be the so-called Poet Pirate himself. Clearly, Emily had been wrong.

Still, Mr. Hudson might be speaking of their father, Margaret thought, somewhat desperately. Perhaps he had returned with Nathaniel and was the man inside the coach. Maybe Lewis and Nathaniel had remained in London. She ventured, “Is this Mr. Upchurch an older man?”

“No. Not unless you call nine-and-twenty old, and I don’t.”

“Oh. You called him master, so I thought . . .”

“The father lives in Barbados, so his son is master of the place for all intents and purposes. He has an elder brother, but Lewis Upchurch spends most of his time in London. We’ll not likely be seeing much of him.”

“Surely he shall come home now,” she said, thinking of Nathaniel’s demands at the ball.

Mr. Hudson gave her a sharp look.

“I mean . . . now that his brother is home.”

He studied her a moment longer, then returned his eyes to the road. Had she already given herself away?

“Perhaps.” The steward cleared his throat. “But you, Nora, being a housemaid, will not see much of the family. Maids are to be all but invisible, I understand.”

Vaguely, Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t really thinking of invisible maids. She was thinking of handsome Lewis Upchurch.

If Lewis did come home, what should she do? Sneak off to find him, reveal herself and her situation? Even if his interest had cooled toward her in recent months, surely he might help her.

A few minutes later, Mr. Hudson turned the horses down a curved drive and reined them in with a “Whoa.” The coach came to a halt in front of a stately red brick manor house with a white front door. Tall, white-framed windows lined the first two levels, while the top floor was punctuated by smaller dormer windows. Broad chimneys crowned its roof, while a manicured lawn, shaped hedges, and flower gardens added color and warmth.

Had she not spurned Nathaniel Upchurch years ago, might this now be her home? The irony left a sour taste in her mouth.

A liveried footman rushed out to meet the coach. Margaret twisted on the bench to descend, but Mr. Hudson laid a staying hand on her arm.

“Not here, Nora. After we get Mr. Upchurch inside, I’ll drive you around to the servants’ entrance.”

Her cheeks burned. “Of course.” She could hardly believe Nathaniel Upchurch was in the very coach she sat atop. She shivered at the thought of what he might do if he saw her there.

The footman opened the door and let down the step.

Hudson called down, “Mr. Upchurch has been injured. Please assist him inside.”

The footman offered a hand to the occupant. The coach swayed as the passenger alighted. Margaret sat stiffly, staring ahead, face averted. She was afraid Nathaniel Upchurch might look up and recognize her and send her away before she’d even begun.

“There you go, sir. Easy does it,” the footman soothed.

“I am not an invalid, man. Let off.”

“Only trying to help.”

Margaret risked a glance and saw a tall dark-haired man in rumpled clothing shake off the footman’s hand. A bandage swathed his head, and one arm hung in a sling. A second footman ran forward to help, concern evident in his expression.

Mr. Hudson addressed the servants. “Please see Mr. Upchurch to his room and draw him a bath.”

“Yes, sir.”

Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch hobble to the door, shaking off the second footman’s hand as he had the first’s. He was certainly not the mild-tempered fellow she remembered from years gone by. She recalled the searing look of disgust he had shot her across the ballroom only a few nights before. It had sent a clear message—I loathe you. He would probably relish an opportunity to revenge himself for her cold refusal of his offer.

She could definitely not risk revealing herself to him.

Mr. Hudson drove to the back of the house. There, a groom came forward and took charge of the horses and carriage. Hudson helped Margaret alight, then escorted her down the outside stairs to the basement. Inside, he led her along a passage to a closed door. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he asked her to wait while he went alone into the housekeeper’s parlor.

He knocked, was admitted by a faint “Come,” and disappeared within, closing the door behind him.

Seeing no one about, Margaret allowed herself to lean against the wall beside the door. She was fatigued from the long, stressful day. Through the closed door she overheard the low rumble of Mr. Hudson’s voice, followed by a silence, then expressions of surprise and concern in a female voice. Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head nearer the door.

A woman said, “I realize, Mr. Hudson, that as house steward, you have the right to hire whom you please, but I would have thought, considering you have just come into your position, that you might at least have consulted me.”

He made some placating reply, but his words were not as distinct as the woman’s, so Margaret made out only a few words, “London . . . help . . . trial.”

A trial, as in it would be a trial to have her there, or a trial period of employment? A heavy sigh followed. Whichever it was, the housekeeper was clearly not pleased by the prospect.

The door opened and Mr. Hudson appeared, grim-faced. “Mrs. Budgeon will see you now.” He added on a whisper, “Mind your p’s and q’s.”

———

The woman within was not what Margaret had expected. She supposed she’d imagined someone like the woman who had hired Joan—a gloomy-faced matron in a decorous high-necked gown and outmoded cap. The woman before her was only in her midforties. Her dress was black but fashionable, striped with grey and brightened by a pretty lace collar. No dowdy cap crowned her thick dark hair, which was neatly pinned back. Her eyes were brown, her face pleasant if a touch long, her complexion fair, her jawline just beginning to soften. She had been a beauty in her youth, Margaret thought. She was attractive still, except for the stern tightening of her mouth and wary light in her eyes.

“Nora, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Nora Garret.”

“Under servants use only Christian names here at Fairbourne Hall. Except when we have more than one Mary, for example.”

Margaret nodded.

“Mr. Hudson tells me you worked previously as a young lady’s maid. And that was where?”

“Lime Tree Lodge, in Summerfield.”

“And your employer?”

Margaret swallowed. “A Mrs. Haines.”

“Normally, I would write to your past employer to request a character reference be sent directly to me. But as Mr. Hudson has taken it upon himself to engage you, I have agreed to give you a month’s trial. Employment after that time will depend upon how well you perform your duties, follow house rules, and get on with other members of staff. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well. We shall see.” The woman rose. “From the looks of you, you’ve had a long day already. Let’s go up and get you settled.”

Taking a candlestick, Mrs. Budgeon led the way along the basement passage. Handing Margaret the lit candle, the woman unlocked a storeroom with one of the many keys hanging from her waist and extracted a set of bed linens and a hand towel. Carrying the candle in one hand and her carpetbag in the other, Margaret followed Mrs. Budgeon up a pair of narrow stairs, through a servery on the ground floor, then up two more flights of back stairs. Margaret was accustomed to climbing stairs in the Berkeley Square town house, but not at such a pace!

“You are to use the back stairs for all your comings and goings,” the housekeeper said. “You are only allowed on the main stairs for staff assemblies or if you are sweeping or polishing the railings.”

Margaret nodded, breathing too hard to answer.

Finally they reached the attic. “The servants’ rooms along this corridor are occupied or used for storage. But there is one small chamber you might use beyond the old schoolroom.” She turned the corner and added with pride, “Each of the female servants here at Fairbourne Hall has her own bedchamber. That is something you won’t find everywhere.”

Had Joan shared a room, perhaps even a bed, with one of the other maids in the Berkeley Square attic? Margaret had no idea.

Mrs. Budgeon opened the last door, and the musty chalk smell of disuse met Margaret’s nose. The chamber was small, narrow, and paneled in white. A cloudy window offered the faint glow of evening sunlight. A cast-iron bed with a bare mattress stood against one wall, a dressing chest and wooden slat chair against the other. Shifting the linens to one arm, Mrs. Budgeon laid the hand towel on the dressing chest, frowning at the empty basin where a pitcher should have been. “I shall send someone up with water.”

Margaret’s stomach grumbled a noisy complaint, and she felt her cheeks heat.

Mrs. Budgeon glanced at her. “When did you last eat?”

Margaret set down the candle and her carpetbag. “This morning.”

“You’ve missed dinner, and supper isn’t until nine.” She sighed. “I shall have something sent up to you. But don’t get used to being waited upon.”

Too late, Margaret thought.

The woman handed Margaret the armload of bed linens. “You are capable of making your own bed, I trust?”

“Of course,” Margaret murmured. But the truth was, she had never made a bed in her life.

“In the morning, Betty will show you what is expected here at Fairbourne Hall. I’ll hear no excuses of ‘but in my last situation things were done differently.’ Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Margaret said. No fear of that from me.

———

When the housekeeper left, Margaret hung her bonnet on the peg behind the door, and set about trying to make the bed. The sheets and pillowcase were of coarse cotton—nothing as fine as she was used to but clean and sweet smelling. She spread the sheets and tucked them under the tick, too tired to care about the wrinkles. Then she covered it with a blanket of summer-weight wool and a spread of white tufted cotton.

A single rap sounded, and her door was butted open before Margaret could reply. A thin dark-haired woman in cap and apron pushed her way inside, pitcher in one hand, plate in the other.

“Oh.” Margaret surveyed the tiny room, and directed the maid toward the dressing chest.

The woman’s mouth tightened. “Yes, m’lady,” she murmured acidly. She dropped the plate onto the chest with a clunk, then shoved the pitcher into Margaret’s arms, some of the water sloshing onto Margaret’s bodice. Cold water.

“I’m not yar servant, am I?” she said, her voice lilting Irish. “I’ve already carried that up three flights of stairs; don’t be commandin’ me to do more.”

“I wasn’t.” Margaret bit her lip and set the heavy pitcher into the basin herself. She glanced back to find the maid smirking at the bed.

“I hope ya make beds better than that . . . or ya won’t last here a week.”

Margaret turned to regard the creased bedclothes.

“Well, don’t stay up too late. Five thirty comes early.” The maid turned on her heel and swept from the room as regally as any highborn miss giving the cut direct.

Margaret sat on the hard chair and ate the bread, cheese, and sliced pickles the maid had brought up. She looked once more at the wrinkled bed and thought it appeared inviting indeed. She was heavy with weariness. Emotionally drained. It was probably only six or seven in the evening, but the escape of sleep beckoned her with its intoxicating pull. Setting down the plate, she rose and stepped toward the bed, and then stiffened.

How would she undress on her own? She ought to have thought of that before the sharp-nosed, sharp-tongued maid left, though she would have been reluctant to ask the cheeky woman for any favor.

Well, she would make do. How hard could it be? Margaret stripped off her apron and hung it on the peg. She pulled the cap and wig from her head and set them beside the bed, near at hand. The gown, loose and wide necked, posed little problem. Margaret peeled it off one shoulder, then the other, then twisted the gown so that the few ribbon ties at the back were easily undone, then she slid the gown over her hips and stepped out. Nothing to it, she thought. And Joan had hinted that Margaret was helpless. Ha!

She stood there in her stays and shift. Trying the same method, she tugged at the shoulder straps of the linen stays. The very snug straps. She succeeding in wiggling one strap partway down, but the other would not give, taut as it was from being pulled in the opposite direction. She tried to reach around herself to grasp the laces up her back, but the stays limited her movement, and even if they had not, she was not contortionist enough to manage the feat. She reached around with her comb, hoping to snag the lacing, but her shoulder ached from being bent so unnaturally.

Giving up, she sat on the bed to remove her stockings. It was difficult to bend at the waist with the stays in place, the rigid ivory busk running from between her breasts to her lower belly. She managed to untie the ribbons that held the stockings above her knees, then had to lift her leg to roll the stockings from her feet. She sat back, oddly winded from the constriction of bending over in her stays.

She cleaned her teeth perfunctorily with the supplies she’d brought. Then she rinsed her hands and face in the cold water and dried off with the towel the housekeeper had provided. Transferring the candle to the small bedside table, Margaret pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in, still wearing her stays and a fine cotton shift beneath. She glanced down at the wig in a curly heap on the floor. What if someone came in? There was no lock on the door. She hated the thought of sleeping with the warm, itchy wig. Instead, she pulled on the cap alone and tucked all of her blond hair into it. That should do. She blew out the candle.

Though mentally fatigued, Margaret tossed and turned, worried about her future, wondering how her mother was reacting, and what was happening in Berkeley Square . . . until finally, finally, sweet sleep lured her away.